What's Yours Is Ours
by Nona Adler
Summary: Following their escape from prison, the crew head to the Lebanese embassy to forge passports. Internal strife and unforeseen complications make their mission far messier than they had expected.


The Locksmith slammed his head against the van window, ripping him out of an unfulfilling nap. He heard the Lookout moan behind him.

"Christ on a cracker, the hell is going on?" the Locksmith said.

"Pot hole," said the Mole, one hand on the steering wheel and the other adjusting the rearview mirror. He gave it a final nudge and brought his hand to rest between his legs, cradling his crotch. He stared into the mirror, sparing the road ahead only a few brief glances.

"Keep your goddang eyes up ahead, dingus. We gotta get outta Monaco in one piece," the Locksmith said. The Mole grunted.

"Yeah, be more careful, please. That kinda hurt," the Lookout called from the back seat.

The Locksmith looked to her; the Lookout sat bottomless on the Cleaner's lap. She rubbed her lower abdomen. The Cleaner grabbed her thin pale thighs and guided her back down his length slowly. She sighed and brushed her wavy red hair out of her sweaty face.

"When your done back there, I reckon Mole can use another set of eyes," the Locksmith said.

"Yeah, sure," the Lookout replied. The Locksmith felt his forehead and interrupted a stream of blood that had just crossed his hairline. He sucked his teeth and turned to the window he had hit. The night made details hard to find, though the occasional streetlamps lining the two-lane road made it clear the window had taken no damage. He looked to the Pickpocket and Bubbles the monkey, sleeping in the passenger seat without any fuss, and his mood soured that much more.

He heard clapping and the Lookout panting behind him, both of which grew louder and faster. Then both stopped, and the van drifted into the opposing lane.

"Goddangit Mole, watch the road!"

"It's alright, I'm here to save the day," the Lookout said as she climbed up the center aisle to the front. She reached the Mole as he brought down his zipper. The Lookout pulled herself onto his lap.

She lowered herself carefully; the Mole was a head taller and twice as wide as the Cleaner, both in stature and endowment.

"Where're we going, anyhoot?" the Locksmith asked.

"Lebanon embassy. We get quick passports," the Mole said. The Locksmith scoffed and pressed his palm against his bleeding head. A hand appeared in front of him offering a handkerchief. The Locksmith looked up at the Cleaner, who stood in the aisle with his sunglasses on and his manhood still pulled through his fly, two phenomena which the Locksmith couldn't quite explain. He took the handkerchief and gave the Cleaner an appreciative nod. The Cleaner returned to the back seat.

One orgasm later, the winding back roads became bright metropolitan intersections. The Mole pulled into a parking garage half a block from the Lebanon embassy. The Lookout slipped her pants on and the Mole woke the Pickpocket with a flick to the nose. The crew disembarked and strode down the sidewalk, maintaining a swagger that belied their recent escape from prison, theft of a van, and stripping of clothes from a terrified group of teens. The Mole limped at the rear of the pack, unable to bend his left knee for the rubber-tipped sledgehammer he had hidden in his pants. The Cleaner did his best to stay in the shadows.

"The rich go to embassies, right? Diplomats and all them have to be rich, right?" said the Pickpocket in mounting enthusiasm. Bubbles bounced on his shoulder; the enthusiasm proved contagious.

"And there're lots of new friends to make!" the Lookout added.

"Bad security mean Mole have easy job."

"Hold your horses, y'all. We oughta get a plan sorted, 'cause if we fuck up, we go straight up shit's creek," said the Locksmith as the walls of the embassy came into view. He still dabbed at his forehead, the blood refusing to clot.

"Aw, we had a whole car ride to come up with a plan. Let's just have some fun, see what happens?" the Lookout said, studying the architecture of passing buildings and looking for any signs of movement around them.

The Pickpocket ran his fingers through his gray beard. "How about we come up with a safe word in case shit goes south?'" The crew now stood at the back side of the embassy, a ten-foot concrete wall before them.

"Alright, that's a start. But let's consider some particulars first. How are we getting in?" As the Locksmith asked, the subtle crinkle of glass shattering made him freeze. He looked up at the top corner of the wall where a thin blade impaled a security camera. He looked behind him as the Lookout pointed to a second camera, prompting the Cleaner to launch another blade.

"The hell are y'all doing? We don't have a plan yet-" The Mole chiseled at the concrete wall, using his sledgehammer to force an iron pick into a few weak points in the structure. Before the Locksmith could react, a section of the wall crumbled to create a hole two feet in diameter. A bush sat on the other side, hiding the hole from view.

"I break wall. We go in now." The Mole crawled through with some difficulty, followed by the Pickpocket, Cleaner, and Lookout. The Locksmith watched them huddle up on the other side and wait for him to join. He shook his head and chuckled to himself.

"Y'all are fuckin' insane! Forget all this, I'll find my own way. Good luck with what you're doin'." The Locksmith crammed his hands into his pockets and sauntered up the road.

The rest of the crew, unperturbed by his desertion, pushed forward. They leapt from bush to bush, keeping a low profile as the occasional guard made his rounds and subdued a yawn. They reached the building and found a poorly lit maintenance door. The Pickpocket pointed out the door to Bubbles, and the monkey licked its lock before scampering away.

The Locksmith turned a corner to a better lit portion of the perimeter and admired a row of luxurious cars parked along the street. The extensive security around the embassy—more accurately, the illusion of such security—gave the wealthy late-night visitors enough confidence to leave their vehicles outside in plain view. The Locksmith sidled up to a Porsche that caught his eye; it was black, shiny, and based on his vast knowledge of cars, that meant it was probably new and expensive.

For a moment he thought about picking the lock and driving into the sunrise, though he realized it was absurd and brushed it off. He peaked in the tinted windows and, as he was admiring the leather upholstery, a drop of blood splashed onto the car. The headlights flashed and the horn blared. A spotlight from the embassy encased him and a guard blew a whistle. The Locksmith raised his hands in the air and sighed, unsure whether to laugh or cry at his own carelessness.

As the whistle blared and guards rushed to the gates, Bubbles returned to the Pickpocket with a key ring containing a dozen small keys and a single large one. The guards swarmed flocked to the source of the disturbance, leaving an opening for the crew to unlock and shuffle through the door without being noticed. The Pickpocket flicks a light switch, and the overhead fluorescents reveal locked panels along the walls and a single door on the opposite side of the room.

"I guess this here's the switchboard. Should we cut some power?" the Pickpocket said.

"Need the power for to make passports," Mole answered. The Cleaner snatched the keys and unlocked a panel, analyzing the labels above some of the switches. He flips a few, then tosses the keys back to the Pickpocket and waits beside the far door. The group joins him, taking note of the switches labelled "A/C" that the Pickpocket turned off. They press against the door, listen, and hear no voices.

"Where exactly do we need to go?" the Lookout asked.

"Computer room. We find near here." The Mole burst from the room and hung a right down a clean tiled hallway. The Pickpocket and Lookout followed, but the Cleaner hesitated. He remained in the maintenance room, closing the door and climbing a few electrical panels to reach an air vent on the ceiling. He loosened the screws with a pocket knife, then ripped off the cover and tossed it aside.

With some difficulty he climbed into the air shaft and crawled in the direction he believed his compatriots had gone. While the others risked capture, he hoped to stay out of sight and, should the mission fail, escape. However, his strong suit lay in murder, not navigation; the system of ducts was more complex than he had anticipated, and he became lost almost immediately.  
His cheeks flushed. He shuffled a through the vents and listened for any hint to where the others had gone. Faintly, he heard a woman moaning. Though the metallic echo that wafted through the vents was distorted, it seemed close enough to the Lookout. He followed the sound and to an exit just as he heard the familiar whimpering of an orgasm. He peered through the cracks in the vent cover into a dark office. He could not see, so he lay silent for a moment and heard panting and the ruffling of clothes over skin.

The Mole reached for the knob of a heavy wooden door and turned it, but the door wouldn't budge.

"Need new key." the Mole turned to the Pickpocket.

"Alright Bubbles, you know what to do. Bring every key you find" Bubbles climbed off the Pickpocket's shoulder, licked the lock on the door, and hurried down the hall. "We should find a place to hide." The crew wandered toward the maintenance room.

"The Lookout stopped them. She listened for a moment. A male voice approached from somewhere down the hall. She pointed frantically in the opposite direction and the Mole and the Pickpocket, recognizing her impromptu sign language, rush to find safety. They dive behind two pillars, the Mole readying his sledgehammer and tossing the iron pick to the Pickpocket. The Lookout prepared to follow but hesitated as Bubbles stood vulnerable in the open, unaware of her warning. The Lookout darted toward him and as she reached the monkey, four men turned the corner and spotted her.

Before they could notice Bubbles, she called attention to herself.

"Excuse me! Hi, I'm lost." The men studied her as they closed the distance and Bubbles snuck past their feet. Three of the men were guards, dressed in button ups and slacks with an array of weapons on their belts and a radio clipped to their collars. The fourth was dressed in a far more opulent suit and was significantly more rotund. His face was locked in a scowl built by a career's worth a of stress and a night of disappointment.

"What are you doing here?" a guard asked.

"See, I came with someone, and, like, I'm just lost." She twirls a strand of hair around her finger and offers a playful smile. "I didn't mean to get separated but it happens, ya know? So, here I am. All alone."

One of the guard's radios crackled and a voice erupted from it: "Has the Emissary been found yet? We need him to turn off that alarm." The guard lowers the volume and redirects his attention to the Lookout. Her coy smile widens.

"I'm actually with the emissary. He said he wanted my input on something," she said. The lead guard reached for the handcuffs on the back of his belt, then stopped as the rotund man chuckled.

"So you are to be helping the emissary's discussion?"

"Yessir, I am!"

"Then please, follow us. Wherever that man has gone, it is not of much importance. I am done to be speaking with him. You and me still can discuss. Mr. Ambassador. Yes, come with us." Mr. Ambassador wrapped an arm around the Lookout's shoulder and ushered her in the direction from whence he came. The guards shared a look, then marched with Mr. Ambassador.

The Mole and the Pickpocket listened for the group to leave. Even after the footsteps disappeared, they remained behind the pillars as they had no better place to hide. A door opened behind them and they tightened up. The footfalls came closer. The Pickpocket and the Mole looked to each other, nodded, and readied their weapons.

A foppish young man stomped by them, oblivious to their presence. He held a phone to his ear and said through gritted teeth "What the hell happened to my car? Why's-did someone try to steal it?"  
The Mole lowered his weapon, prepared to let the man go free. The Pickpocket, however, gave chase. The foppish man wore shiny gold trinkets and had a noticeable bulge in his back pocket from an overstuffed wallet. Unable to resist the temptation, the Pickpocket tiptoed behind the foppish man, keeping at least four yards between them. The Mole sighed, sat down, and cradled his sledgehammer.

"Okay, where is the lobby? This is the worst designed place I have ever been to," the man said. He rounded a random corner and stopped, listening to what the apologetic voice at the other end of the call told him. The Pickpocket, seeing a chance, snuck up behind the man and hid the iron pick up his sleeve. He stumbled up to the man and bumped into him. The foppish man yelped.

"Sorry, 'scuse me, sorry. Gotta find the bathroom. This place ain't built right." The Pickpocket ran his hands through every pocket he could find, hiding the spoils up his sleeves.

"Oh my god, go away!" The man pushed him away and scuttled away. "Oh god, did you know they let homeless people stay here?" He did not look back. The Pickpocket grinned. He returned to the Mole and laid out his loot on the ground. He showed off the jewelry to Mole, who seemed interested in how the gold would shine, and counted the cash in the wallet. He took a pair of car keys and accompanying fob, both brandishing the Porsche logo, and examined them. He looked up to the Mole and dangled them. "We've got a new ride."

"Might be small for Mole."

"Yeah, well, if you want, you can drive the van and I drive this."

"Okay. Deal."

The Pickpocket lowered the keys into his breast pocket and shoved the rest of the goods in the pockets of his tattered jeans.

The Cleaner watched the office closely hoping to find some indication of where his allies were; he'd heard a phone ring and someone rushed out after answering, leaving the door open so the hallway lights spilled into the room. At least one more person was still in this room, but he doubted it would be the Lookout. The combination of the rising temperature in the building, the lack of air conditioning, and his own embarrassment left him sweating and uncomfortable. He tried to retrace his earlier path, but his palms couldn't gather any traction. He dug his arms into the walls of the vent and tried to force himself backward and forward to no avail. He could not move.

He weighed his options and, believing his choice to be one of necessity rather than panic, he decided to break the vent cover, fall into the office below, and kill whoever stood in his way. He did what he could to loosen the screws before pounding the cover. He heard a woman gasp as he beat it. After three solid punches, the cover dislodged and fell to the ground. He gripped the edge of the opening and pulled himself through headfirst. He managed to get his torso out before the sweat coating his hands caused him to slip. He did not plummet to the floor; he pressed his calves against the low ceiling of the duct and pinned his waist to the border of the vent. Below him was a leather Chesterfield chair, the back of which was almost tall enough for him to reach. He stretched for it, though this caused him to slip a little and he stopped to catch himself. The waistband of his jeans was caught on the lip of the vent, so as he came closer to the chair, his pants were pulled down. He finally wrapped his hands around the back of the top of the chair and, with an anxious breath, he pulled his hips forward and flipped into the chair's leather cushion. He succeeded at the cost of his pants and he now sat sweaty and bottomless in an office with an unknown party.

He walked to the office door and closed it, then turned on the lights to get a proper view of the room. Standing against the wall, watching him with a smirk, was a middle-aged Lebanese woman in lace lingerie. She stood behind the office desk, arm resting on the back of a computer chair with a green dress draped over it. He retrieved a knife from his shirt pocket and took an offensive stance. The woman chuckled and looked down at his cock, appraising.  
"Would you like to make a deal as well?" she said.

Mr. Ambassador snapped his fingers and two of his guards opened a set of double doors leading to a large circular office. He pointed to the lead guard, then to the windows at the far end of the room. The lead guard ran in and dragged heavy black curtains along their metal rods to hide the lights from view of the street. Mr. Ambassador and the Lookout entered, and the two guards copied a moment later. They locked the doors and turned their attention to Mr. Ambassador.

"Negotiations did not go well, and I do not like to compromise. But I can be a compromising man if I get convinced. Do you know how to convince me?" he said, and he set his hand on her hip.

She looked into his eyes and grinned. "I'll have you know I'm very good at negotiating." She placed her fingertips on his chest, then lightly dragged them down his front until stopping over the zipper of his slacks. She felt his bulge and hid her disappointment behind a sweet giggle.

A low, muffled message came over the lead guard's radio. He listened for a moment, then addressed Mr. Ambassador. "Sir, the emissary would like to speak with you," he said.

"I'm busy negotiating. Tell him to wait."

"Sir, he says he'd like to complain about our allowing homeless men in the embassy."

"We don't have a policy of that kind. What's he saying?"

"He says he saw a man with a white beard and torn clothing bump into him in the hall. He wants to speak to you about it immediately." The Lookout gasps quietly. The lead guard notices. Mr. Ambassador thinks for a moment, then scowls.

"You wait here, girl," he said to the Lookout. "You two, come with me. This stupid child is to be going to speak." The two guards unlocked the door and walked behind Mr. Ambassador as he stormed off. She watched Bubbles, hiding in a potted plant, swipe something from Mr. Ambassador and give it a hearty lick. He darted down the corridor, the quiet patter of his feet blending with the jingle of a set of keys. She grinned and turned to the lead guard.

"I get the feeling my boss will want to leave soon. Perhaps I should go find him—"

"What is your boss's name?" the lead guard said, approaching the Lookout slowly.

"I'm with the emissary."

"What's his name?"

The Lookout studied the guard. He pulled out his handcuffs with one hand and rested the other on his pistol.

"Okay, you got me. Maybe I'm not with the emissary. But could there be a way we could work things out?" She stepped toward him and pinched the bottom of her shirt, guiding it up her abdomen.

"Ma'am, you're under arrest for impersonation of—"

"Please? Even if it's for a little bit?" She lifted her shirt further, exposing her perky breasts. The guard hesitated but pushed forward.

"—for the impersonation of a government official. Put your hands behind your back." The guard reached for her wrist. She dropped her shirt and spat in his face. The guard lunged at her. She landed a well-timed kick directly to his crotch and ran as he collapsed on the floor. She heard him shout into his radio, though he found it difficult to form coherent thoughts.

The Locksmith stood in the middle of the embassy lobby, two guards holding his elbows. Blood still trickled down his face. The foppish man paced in front of them as an older guard held a cup of tea.

"The hell is wrong with you people? If it's not a homeless man… how are you so bad at your job?" the man said.

"We do our best, sir. Care for some tea?" The older guard offered the cup. The man shot an incredulous glance, then swatted it away. It shattered on the ground.

"All fairness, the security here could be better." the Locksmith said. The guards restraining him dug their thumbs into the inside of his elbow and he winced from the pain.

"There's also the matter of your car, sir. Let us not forget," the older guard said. The man buried a hand in his pants pocket, then froze. He patted down every conceivable hiding place on his person, and he looked to the older guard in a panic. However, his worry quickly dissolved into fury.  
"_Her_," he said before disappearing down a corridor. The Locksmith smirked and shook his head, splattering a little blood on the clean tile floor. The older guard sighed and kneeled, collecting the pieces of the shattered cup.

As he gathered the final bit, Mr. Ambassador called from across the room "Where is he? Where is the silly boy?" The older guard jumped at the sudden outburst and dropped all the glass he had picked up.

"He's just gone off for something—" the guard started. Mr. Ambassador groaned, which evolved into a frustrated yell. He crossed the lobby, grumbling under his breath, until he stood before the Locksmith.

"Who is this man?" Mr. Ambassador asked. "What have you be getting him here now?"

"Sir, this man was found setting of the emissary's car alarm. We suspected he was attempting to steal it or—"

"I do not give green snot! He be doing whatever he likes to silly brat's car, I don't care. Let him go," Mr. Ambassador said. The two guards released their grip on the Locksmith as the older guard unlocked his handcuffs. The Locksmith rubbed his wrist, looked at the men around him with barely restrained contempt, and made his way to the front door. Mr. Ambassador turned to leave.

"Wait, sir!" the older guard called out. "There's still the matter of the homeless man—"

"It is silly tale from silly boy. I do not care." Mr. Ambassador said. "But I hear guards say that there is attractive girl lying that she is to be with emissary. You find her. You bring her to me. That's your job."

The Mole gazed at a shiny gold watch that the Pickpocket allowed him to hold. He watched the second hand glide from one to four, then looked away to give his eyes a break from the exhausting effort this took. As he recuperated, Bubbles returned and dropped Mr. Ambassador's keys onto the Pickpocket's lap.

"Thatta boy, Bubbles!" he said.

"Throw to Mole." The Pickpocket tossed to keys to the Mole, who stood and singled out a brass key in an instant. He inserted the key into the door and unlocked it. He and the Pickpocket entered a dark computer lab with three long rows of sleek desktop monitors with bulky printers at the ends of each row. The Mole sat at the computer closest to the door and removed a flash drive from his pants pocket.

The Pickpocket pushed the door closed, but the Lookout slammed against it before it could catch and barged into the room.

"We're getting things going now, right? Good," she said. "Hey, did we ever settle on a safe word? Because, like, safe word!"

"It take only few second."

"You've done this before, haven't you, Mole?" the Pickpocket asked.

"Very low security. Easy job for Mole. Have templates" Mole selects a few files from the flash drive, then enters the embassy's database to find suitable pictures for each of their passports. He moves the pictures to his template files and sends them to the print. "They print, then we go."

The Lebanese woman shuddered and dug her nails into the oak office table. The Cleaner tightened his hold on her hair as his hips convulsed against hers. He released her and she collapsed into a small puddle of her own sweat.

The Cleaner offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted with an amused smile. She wiped her brow and looked for the panties she had carelessly flung a few minutes prior. The Cleaner stood on the Chesterfield chair and grabbed his jeans from the air duct, though they had somehow torn when he first fell and were no longer wearable. He tied the pant legs around his neck like an ascot to keep from losing them.

"It was fun, Mr. Mystery," the Lebanese woman said. "So, what is your deal?"

The door burst open. The foppish emissary stood there, panting and enraged.

"Where the hell are my car keys?" he shouted. He noticed the Cleaner standing between himself and the Lebanese woman and froze, a mix of confusion and annoyance. He prepared to shout his next demand but was interrupted by the sickening crack of a sledgehammer against the back of his skull. The emissary fell to the ground and the Mole took his place in the style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /span

"Printing done. We go now." He flashed the handful of forged passports, then took off down the hall with the Lookout and the Pickpocket close behind. The Cleaner turned back to the Lebanese woman and place a finger over his lips. She nodded, her hands shaking at the sudden violence that so quickly followed her orgasm. The Cleaner ran after his crew.

The Lebanese woman stood still for a moment, naked, watching the blood pool around the emissary's lifeless body. She did not know how long she was there, only that the lead guard came to her eventually. He checked if she was alright, and though the shock had not worn off, she insisted nothing was wrong. He asked, "Have you seen a red headed woman run or a homeless man come through?"

"No. Never."

"Do you know what happened here, then?"

"He tried to attack me… so I killed him." She spoke nonchalantly, jarring the lead guard. He relayed the situation into his radio and helped her dress. She paid little attention to the guard, instead mourning the death of one decent lay and the sudden departure of another. The guard brought her to Mr. Ambassador's, the curtains no longer drawn and the streets visible over the concrete wall.

"You have killed an emissary in my building," Mr. Ambassador said. "You are to being found stripped and you say you killed the man for trying to be attacking, yes?" The Lebanese woman nodded. Mr. Ambassador grinned. "Yes, you kill the brat. This is being why we are married!" He rushed to her and embraced her. She stared out the window, watching a black Porsche drive away.

The Locksmith walked down the street, pressing the Cleaner's blood-soaked handkerchief into his wound, which bled much less by then. He considered his luck, for better or worse, and wondered if his former crew had managed to succeed in their own way.

The black Porsche that turned an embassy on him rolled up to his side. The Mole rolled down the passenger window and extended a forged passport to the Locksmith. He studied it, confused and uncertain.

"Is yours. Please take."

"I left y'all. I don't think I deserve it."

"Is okay. You take."

"The Locksmith takes the passport and flips through it, impressed at the craftsmanship the Mole managed.

"Have room in back. You want ride?"

The Porsche pulled over and parked at the curb. The Mole swung his door open and gestured to an available seat in the back beside where the voluntarily bottomless Lookout sat in the lap of the involuntarily bottomless Cleaner. The Locksmith looked to the Mole, uncertain.

"Have better suspension. No break head here."

The Locksmith laughed and climbed into the Porsche. The Mole took his seat and the crew drove to the parking garage for the Mole to collect the van. Then, the five crossed France in search of a place to build their new lives together.


End file.
